


if everybody had an ocean

by impossiblepluto



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Accidental Words of Family, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Near Drowning, Parental Jack Dalton, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:09:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28919595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblepluto/pseuds/impossiblepluto
Summary: He’s along for the ride and the adrenaline rush and there’s very little he can control. He crouches in the curl, staying just on the edge of the solid tube of water that roars around him. Just when it feels like the wave is going to crash against him and swallow him whole, he angles the board, bursting through the solid wall of water and onto the crest of another wave, propelling him further.AKA the one with surfing, a wipeout, and accidental words of family
Relationships: Jack Dalton & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016)
Comments: 39
Kudos: 70





	if everybody had an ocean

**Author's Note:**

> Unless otherwise specified, all of my stories take place in some other universe which diverged from the show around the season 2 finale. My Mac never loses his Jack. 
> 
> I'm very excited to fill the first of my Found Family Bingo squares. 
> 
> The title comes from The Beach Boys, "Surfing USA"

“You can just admit you don’t know how,” Mac says with a smirk aimed at Jack. He stands, dusting sand from his palms.

“I know how,” Jack sputters. 

“Right… you just don’t want to right now,” Mac nods, narrowing his eyes and pursing his lips. 

“Shut up.”

“You’re from Texas. When did you learn how to surf?”

“Uh, we have a coast.”

“In the Atlantic.”

“Gulf of Mexico and it’s warmer than here, I’ll tell you that. Prettier too. Bluer.”

“Don’t you have to wait for a hurricane to surf the Atlantic?” Mac smooths his hand over his board, propped in the sand like he’s staked a claim on this section of beach, surveying the waves again. 

“No… okay, the best swells  _ are _ in hurricane season, but...” 

Mac snorts. 

“Hey now.”

“And you say I’m crazy with no sense of self-preservation.”

“Oh, I still stand by that. Surfing a hurricane is nowhere as bad as running towards a bomb.”

“I rarely ran.”

“Skipped.”

“No.”

“Scampered.”

“Besides, you were right behind me the whole time.”

“At least I had a gun.”

“Oh yeah, so you could shoot the explosion. They definitely teach that as an option in EOD training.”

Jack pulls off his flip-flop and tosses it at Mac, who dodges it easily, ducking behind his board.

“Go surf your little waves.” 

With a giggle, Mac tugs his t-shirt over his head, dropping it on his towel, and picks up his board. 

“You’re wearing sunscreen, right?” Jack yells after him. “Last thing you need is to cook that pasty skin like a lobster.” 

Mac waves a hand in acknowledgment, board tucked under his arm as he wades into the water, he can still hear Jack’s fainting muttering about being careful. He seems to think that everything from the sun, to the sand is out to get Mac. Hasn’t changed much from their days in the Sandbox. 

He’s not romanticizing those days. He’s never been as scared as he was then. Somedays his nose still burns with the scent of acrid smoke, the metallic tang of blood, and the sickening stench of death. The smell of fear and anger and pain and he wishes he’d never seen that kind of destruction up close. Wishes he wasn’t assaulted by death when he closes his eyes. What kind of world does he live in where a child, not even old enough to drink is given the responsibility of saving his brothers from being mangled beyond recognition. 

He steps gingerly over a large strand of kelp determined to wrap around his ankles and grab the leash keeping him tethered to his board. Refraining from shivering, it’s not just the chill of the water that makes him feel cold but the dark direction his thoughts are sliding. 

Though, somehow, despite the constant adrenaline surge of being downrange, the year he spent in the Army with Jack watching his back has a feeling of stability that he can’t recall feeling at other points in his life. When it was too much and he was ready to give up, ready to vomit, sure he was going to die, Jack was there with a promise that he always would be which Mac still scoffs at. Because that kind of promise is made to be broken. Mac’s life is proof of that. 

Too young to remember the few years with his mother and no one would ever use words like dependable or secure to describe the years before his father left. 

The years between that and meeting Jack were unbalanced. Nothing felt permanent. Harry tried his best but there was always an ephemeral feeling of his guardianship. The Bozers accepted him as though he was one of their own, but even there with his own bed and bike and spot at the dinner table, it wasn’t really home. 

But Jack...

Mac continues wading toward the stiller, deeper channel, away from the crash of waves, staying outside of the surf zone before stretching out across his board. 

He shakes himself loose from his thoughts. The uncertainty that starts to bubble when he delves too deeply. The disquiet that mars the peaceful contentment every time he begins to hope that maybe…

The sun is warm on his back, drying him quickly as he paddles towards the lineup. He continues scanning the horizon, watching the waves break and keeping an eye out for other surfers. There aren’t too many people out yet. It’s often forgotten for the more glamorous surf spots on the coastline, making it one of Mac’s favorite places to go. Too challenging for a newbie, not exciting enough for the wannabe pros. Perfect waves for when he just wants to lose himself for a while. 

Reaching the line up, he sits up, settling on his board with his legs dangling in the water, watching as another surfer out deeper catches a wave. It’s a beautiful run. 

Mac lets another couple of waves pass, enjoying the gentle rocking of the surf and the prickling warmth of the sun on his skin before deciding to catch the next wave. 

Turning the nose of his board towards the shore, he lays down and begins paddling, slowly gaining momentum. He glances over his shoulder when he feels the wave starting to tug at the back of his board. Kicking up the power of his strokes, years of experience guiding him, making sure he’s not too far in front or outside of the wave. His speed increases and he feels his stomach drop like he’s on a roller coaster before he pops up in one motion, keeping his knees bent and his weight on his back foot.

For a moment, all that exists is the wave. The power behind it. Overloading his senses. A dazzling sparkle of the sun against the water. The bitter taste of saltwater on his lips. 

He shifts his weight, absorbing a drop and harnessing the energy of the wave, propelling the board forward, laughing in delight when he feels the swoop in his belly. 

He’s along for the ride and the adrenaline rush and there’s very little he can control. He crouches in the curl, staying just on the edge of the solid tube of water that roars around him. Just when it feels like the wave is going to crash against him and swallow him whole, he angles the board, bursting through the solid wall of water and onto the crest of another wave, propelling him further. 

As the wave disintegrates he drops into the water, ducking his head under the surface for a moment. Slicking his hair back away from his face. Hopping back onto his board he paddles out again for another run. 

There’s nothing like it in the world. For all his skill and prowess, he’s still completely at the mercy of the ocean and there’s a freedom in that he can’t explain. Maybe it’s because it’s just him against the waves. No one else counting on him. He’s not endangering anyone if he fails. If his skills don’t measure up or if he gets distracted. 

There is still a science to it. Studying the currents. Where the waves break. The balance of bodies on the board and the physics of momentum. He can learn from it. Test his skills. Be challenged and nothing is at stake, except him.

His second and third runs are much like the first. Filled with euphoria. And he can forget everything. Muscles burning with exertion and his mind free. Losing track of time in a way he’s never been allowed to before.

He takes a spill on the next set. Churning in the surf, and there’s a moment of panic when he’s tossed, until he breaks through the surface, sputtering. His shin aches where it connected with the board and he’s sure to be a spectacular range of colors tomorrow but it’s not the first wipeout he’s had and he’s not ready to give up the serenity he’s found in the agitated waves. Shaking water from his hair, he shimmies back onto his board. He’s not done yet. 

The sun is high in the sky when Mac looks up, unsure how long he’s been out here. Trying to count how many sets he’s surfed. His gaze turns towards the beach. It’s more crowded than when he last looked, but he picks Jack out of the crowd easily with his loud pink and orange flamingo print swim trunks and white linen shirt unbuttoned and flapping in the breeze, standing at the water’s edge, watching him intently.

With an almost embarrassed shuffle, he realizes how much time Jack’s spent waiting for him. He feels an uncomfortable thud in his chest, worried that he’s taken advantage of Jack, imposed on his time. He points his board inland when Jack waves, gesturing him back out into the surf. Mac licks his lips, grimacing at the salty taste. He hesitates for a moment and decides on one more run. Dragging a hand through his hair, maybe two. Then he’ll return to the beach and tease Jacks some more. 

He goes out deeper, watching for other surfers and the next wave. He glances once more at the shore. Jack still watches him and there’s a small thrill of… something… he imagines maybe this is what it’s like to look out over the sea of people in a not-too-crowded auditorium and hope to see his dad smiling proudly, like Bozer’s dad is, as they shake the hands of the science fair judges and accept their first place trophies. 

Paddling furiously, the oncoming wave gaining on him, he displaces that thought and those feelings he can’t quite give a name to, pushing them aside with each swimming stroke.

Popping to his feet he regains equilibrium. 

Allows himself to slip into the familiar ebb and flow. 

Something catches his attention. He cranes his neck, searching. His gaze obstructed by the wall of water. 

There’s a flash of vibrant red that cuts across his path. Another surfer dropping in on his wave. 

“Hey!” Mac yells but his voice doesn’t carry beyond the roar. 

And the figure makes no move to pull up. 

Mac shifts his weight to the tail of the board, trying to stall. His hand juts out into the wave to slow his momentum. 

“Look out!” He tries again, before giving up and swinging sharply into the wave. It’s not enough to fully avoid the collision. 

He flings himself off the side of his board. Jumping shallow in the unknown depth. Smacking hard against the surface of the water. Enough force to drive his last startled breathe out of his lungs before crashing through and sinking fast. 

Sucked into the lip of the wave, tumbling. Tossed in the swell like laundry in the wash cycle.

The leash yanks taunt, jerking his leg. 

Sluicing through the water, the board ricochets back towards him. He throws his hands up, too late and not enough to stop the force of the board. 

Pain explodes across the bridge of his nose. His cheek. His mouth. His too slow hands guard his face. Eyes stinging. Warmth erupts from his nose. The water turning foggy red. His eyes slam closed. 

It’s dizzying. His equilibrium addled first by the blow by the blow, then from the grappling with the waves as he’s pitched, end over end. 

Swimming for the surface. Stretching. Reaching. He didn’t think he was out that deep when he went under. 

It can’t be much farther. 

His body tossed again. Eyes flying opened in shock when he’s shoved against the sandy floor. Skin scraped raw. Sand, rock, and shells instead of the sun, sky, and air he expected. 

Discombobulated by the surf, he swam in the wrong direction. 

Frustration and fear war for a stronghold. 

Turbulence like nothing he’s felt before. Completely powerless. His attempts to swim are instead reckless flailing of his arms and legs. Useless against the mayhem and violence of the ocean. 

Water burns in his sinuses as he scrambles right himself and free himself from the currents. Eyes bleary against the stinging salt. Forced back down to the depths with the next roll.

Panic looming. Starbursts in his vision.

He struggles. Spun in the surge. His fingertips searching for the leash around his ankle, closing his hand and pulling tight. Using the buoyancy of the board, turning himself right-way-up.

Feet underneath him, he halts his descent. Thrusting himself towards the surface. Grimacing and losing a mouthful of air as a sharp pain slices through his foot. He ignores it, for now, reaching overhead. Powerful strokes towards the light. Before he’s driven back down. 

Lungs bursting with the need to breathe as he fights back panic. 

His head pounds. His brain dizzy from lack of oxygen and the twisting, turning of the current. 

A shadow falls over his vision. 

Reaches up, hand outstretched, he crashes through the surface. Pushing himself harder, he gasps, breaking free of the wave.

Sucking in a heaving breath, choking and coughing, he can feel himself slipping. 

Scrambling, he gets his feet underneath him. His toes brushing against sand. Trying to keep his balance when a fresh wave threatens to knock him under. 

Through the roar of the sea, he hears his name. 

And a hand closes around his wrist.

* * *

Mac is surfing an amazing set. 

Truthfully, Jack’s a little jealous. 

He can surf with the best of them… with the mediocre of them. That wimpy little water baby that he begrudgingly calls a friend is not the best surfer out there, despite what he wants to claim, even if he did grow up in Hawaii and joined the Navy. And Jack kept up with him, matched him wave for wave. 

That was a few metaphorical miles and several birthdays ago through. 

Jack subtly stretches his glutes, hamstrings, and lower back. Maintaining balance on the unstable board on the water uses those muscles in a way they haven’t been in a while. He’s not as young as he used to be, and he was probably never as young as Mac is. He’ll do some deadlifts in the gym, get everything stretched out and limbered up before he takes on Mac. 

Standing at the water’s edge, Jack can’t help the smile that crosses his lips as Mac catches wave after wave. He feels a strange sort of pride bubbling in his chest, watching the exuberance that floods from Mac, the exhilarating high that comes from pitting his skills against nature. 

In a strange way, it’s not unlike the feelings he has the moment he observes the expression that crosses Mac’s face when a plan comes together or watches him snip the last wire and lean back with a sigh of relief. 

He’s tried chalking it up to the euphoria of survival against the odds, but it’s different than any other team he’s worked with, downrange or in the CIA. More than just life-affirming camaraderie. Seeing Fitzy disarm a bomb would make Jack give him a slap on the back, or maybe, if it was really bad, a quick bro-hug. Not go in for a real hug and tell the man he was proud of him. He didn’t feel a swell of pride in his chest or a desire to boast about his accomplishments. 

And it’s not just the dramatic moments either. It’s when Mac told off a bully in the barracks and stood his ground. Made his own projector and they screened Star Wars on the deck. Or he finds the perfect moment for a Die Hard quote, or makes a really bad, like Jack-level bad, joke and surreptitiously glances up from under a fringe of too long hair watching Jack’s guffaw of delight. Allows Jack to pull him close and ruffle his hair, protesting but making no move to pull away.

It’s getting harder to ignore that feeling. Refuse to identify it. To resist giving it a name.

Jack paces a few steps of the beach, digging his toes into the warm sand. Enjoying the water lapping around his ankles. It’s a much needed day for both of them, and while surfing isn’t what Jack would call relaxing, he can see, despite the strength needed to stay on the board, that the tension weighing on Mac’s shoulders has eased. He’s allowed to just be. Without obligations. 

Mac, he’s learned, has a very different definition of relaxation and no concept of how to spend free time. 

Jack can relate. 

A few years ago, Jack wouldn’t have been content sitting on the beach. Maybe he’s growing up. 

_ Or getting older, _ he grouses to himself. Appreciating the quieter things in life. He remembers how his pop would show up to watch football practice, sitting in the stands for hours at a time, just watching. Not to critique his skills like other fathers would at the few games they deigned to attend, and tell their sons how they were lacking. Just content to watch his son playing. No matter how well Jack did, or if he was having an off day, driving home in the GTO, his pop always said how proud he was. 

Once, Jack asked him if he wished he was the one playing. Isn’t he bored just watching? Pop smiled, said it made him happy to see Jack happy. It’s a concept Jack understood. Sort of. He was happy to see his pop grinning when they worked on the GTO together, but standing there, watching his dad work on the car without participating, there’s a finite amount of time where he would be satisfied with that. Itching to jump in and do something. 

As he finishes another set, Mac settles on his board, blond hair glowing, standing out against the blue that surrounds him, turning his face to the sun. And then towards the beach with a sheepish wave. And Jack can read his body language as he comes down from his high. Sudden realization that though it feels like it, out there on the waves, time didn’t stand still for those on the beach and wondering if he should call it a day. If he’s forced Jack to sit and wait, watching him for too long. 

But Jack’s spent countless hours sitting in more uncomfortable sand and watching Mac’s back as he disarms bombs, he’ll happily spend just as much time watching the kid enjoying himself. 

Jack waves him back out and he swears that even at the distance he can see the easy grin erupt on Mac’s face. That feeling he’s reluctant to examine too closely returns, happy just to see his boy happy. 

In the last few months of their time in the Sandbox, Jack had pretty much stopped making jokes about Mac’s slow… meticulous bomb disposal methods. For one thing, Mac saved a lot of lives, including his own. Including a lot of people Mac will never meet. Whenever possible, the kid tried disarming the bomb rather than detonate a contained blast. They learned a lot of signatures and caught a lot of would-be bombers through the components he brought back to base for study. His intel is still saving lives. 

Letting the kid take his time, work, or play, or figuring out things that are bugging him, yields the best results for everyone. 

Mac pops up on his board, cresting the wave. Jack frowns. There’s movement at Mac’s flank. 

Jack steps further into the shallows. 

“Hey!” Jack shouts as he watches the scene unfold. Too far away to be heard but he can’t help but shout the warning. “Watch your back, Mac! Watch it!” As another surfer drops in on Mac’s wave. 

A deep pit of cold dread fills Jack’s stomach. Watching Mac’s back but no way to intervene. 

Mac’s good. Capable. He zigs and zags and for a moment it looks like he’ll be able to angle away from the curl and navigate out of the wave. Earlier than he’d like. He’ll probably give the drop-in an earful when they reach the beach. And complain about it the whole way home. Except that at the last second the boards collide. And Mac tumbles. Swallowed by a thick sheet of water. 

Jack splashes into the water, watching the spot where Mac went under. Waiting with his heart hammering in his chest. Don’t panic. 

“Mac!”

His eyes scan the waves. Reminds himself that Mac is adept at taking care of himself, despite Jack’s teasing claims that he needs a bodyguard and to be encased in bubble wrap. He’s an accomplished surfer and swimmer. Just give him a moment. Don’t panic.

A moment later Mac’s surfboard pops to the surface. Jack stares, waiting for a blond head to follow. 

Don’t panic. 

Waves sweep over the board. 

“No, no, no,” Jack mumbles, fighting against the water. Waves rushing towards shore threaten to bowl him over. Then sweep at his knees as they return to the deep. He keeps scanning, watching for Mac.

The board juts upright, tombstoning. Signaling Mac’s struggle to reach the surface. 

“Come on, Mac, come on.” Fighting the undertow, Jack murmurs words of encouragement, struggling towards the surfboard, the beacon of Mac’s location. 

Mac breaks the surface. Head bobbing in the waves. Coughing and sputtering as he attempts to suck in lungfuls of air. Jack can see the panic written in Mac’s eyes. Thrashing against the strength of the ocean. 

Blood is streaked across his face. A wave threatens to drag him back under. 

Jack wrestles the currents to reach his boy. 

Catching Mac’s hand as he loses his footing, yanking his head and shoulders above the water. Jack hauls Mac upright, holding him back to chest, a strong arm wrapped across him and tows him into shallower depths. He can feel Mac’s heart pounding under his hand. Shaky, raspy half- gasps. Warm blood drips onto his arm. 

Mac chokes. Shaking his head, his long hair flings droplets of water, bucking lightly out of Jack’s grasp in his adrenaline-fueled state. 

“Easy,” Jack murmurs, adjusting his hold and allowing Mac some autonomy. Sliding his shoulders under Mac’s arm while one hand remains resting against Mac’s chest as he coughs. “You okay?”

Mac waves weakly, unable to form words around his body’s violent attempts at expelling the ocean from his lungs. He shudders in Jack’s arms, trembling and spasming. It’s only Jack’s grip that keeps him upright, half-dragged from the surf, stumbling. The waves reluctantly loosen their hold the closer they make it to shore. 

When they reach the beach, Mac’s knees go weak, the last of his fight draining from him. Exhausted, he drags his arm from around Jack’s neck, and drops, sitting in the sand, arms resting on his knees, head hanging low and sucking in deep breaths around rasping coughs. Jack pulls the board still attached to Mac’s leg out of the water to keep it from pulling at him, before dropping to his knees in front of Mac. Assessing. 

“Mac, buddy, can you hear me? Can you understand what I’m sayin’?” Jack feels his concern ratchet up as Mac doesn’t answer, still gulping lungfuls of air. He reaches out, cupping the side of Mac’s neck. Mac flinches violently. Hisses at the contact. His right side is a myriad of scuffed and abraded patches of skin. Blood runs in rivulets from his nose. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Mac rasps, catching his breath. He wipes his nose, smearing blood across his other cheek. Slicking his hair back, he squints up at Jack, still panting with exertion and fear. More blood stains his face from a cut above his eyebrow. 

Crawling a few feet up the beach, Jack grabs their towels, shaking them out, he folds the first one over, pressing it against the cut. 

Mac flinches again at the contact. “Ow,” he bats at Jack’s hand. 

“Hold this for me,” Jack ignores the protests, catching Mac’s hand and guiding it to put pressure against the wound. “There you go. Tip your head forward. Don’t want to make yourself sick from blood running down your throat. Here, hold this one too.” 

Both of Jack’s hands come up to skim across Mac’s scalp feeling for bumps. “Did you hit your head?”

“I don’t think so,” Mac’s voice is muffled. “I mean, just my face.”

“Yeah, you did a number on that one, buddy,” Jack’s hands move low, past Mac’s nape and down his shoulders. He seems to be moving them alright and Jack doesn’t feel any separation of the joints. “Do you remember what happened?”

“Tried to get out of the way of some hodad who dropped in on my wave,” Mac coughs. 

Kid used to get so annoyed at the teasing, calling him Hollywood and SoCal and the guys singing The Beach Boys at him, but here he is, bushy blond hair and surf lingo spilling from his mouth. Jack blinks in surprise and if he wasn’t so concerned he might actually laugh. 

“Is he okay?”

“The hit and run surfer? Yeah, he’s still out there, getting in everybody’s way.”

“‘Course he is,” Mac grumbles, pulling the bloodied towel away from his nose. 

“Look up at me for a minute,” Jack instructs, catching the smooth and really what looks to be like the only remaining unmarred skin of Mac’s chin. His face is a mess. “Think the bleeding stopped. What happened here?”

“Got hit in the face by my board,” the words sound nasally and thick. 

Jack winces as he peers into Mac’s eyes. “Blurry vision or dizziness?”

“I think it’s just from the saltwater,” Mac blinks hard. “They’re blurry but they’re also burning. I’m not dizzy. Or nauseated.” He sucks in a pained breath when Jack touches his scraped cheek.

“Sorry,” Jack mutters. “This is probably gonna hurt too.” He gently palpates Mac’s nose and apologizes again when Mac flinches at his touch. “I think it’s broken.” 

“Yeah,” Mac coughs again and turns away from Jack, spitting pink-tinged saliva into the sand next to him. 

“Is that leftover from your nose or are you coughing up blood,” Jack’s frown deepens, mentally running through a list of possible injuries. His hands drop, prodding Mac’s ribs. “Are you breathing okay? You break a rib?”

“Think I bit my lip,” Mac prods at the area with his tongue and grimaces.

“Alright,” Jack says with a relieved sigh at not finding any displacements. “Come on, let me see.” 

With a huff, Mac opens his mouth, Jack adjusts his hold and gently thumbs down Mac’s lower lip, as he flinches, exposing a large gash. “Oh, that’s bad. That’s deep.” 

“It’s fine,” Mac mumbles, words slurred around Jack’s thumb.

“I think you’re gonna need some stitches.” Jack grimaces, as he tries to get a closer look. 

“I don’t want stitches,” Mac pulls his head away. 

“Dude, I don’t think you’re gonna have a choice. You don’t want to get… stuff in there. Get all infected. You’ll have a fat lip.”

“I’ll gargle.”

“Not sure that’s gonna be enough. Look, I know it’s gonna suck but it’ll be fine. They’ll numb it. Won’t hardly know they’re doing anything.”

“Yeah, I won’t, because I’m not getting stitches.”

“Might as well let the professionals take a look and decide on that,” Jack frowns, as Mac scrambles painfully to his feet. “You know you’re going in, right hoss? Like that is non-negotiable.”

“It's not that bad.”

“I’m not just talking about your lip. You were smacked in the face with a surfboard. And what about the rest of this road rash you’ve got going on?”

“I’m not concussed. My nose might be broken, but it’s not displaced. I’ll just wash everything out. I’m not sitting in an ER for five hours for them to do something I can take care of at home. I could have everything cleaned out before they’ve even got an ID band on me.”

“I think you’re forgetting about our very own Medical. No waiting room.”

“I’m not dripping through the halls of DXS for this. Do you want Thornton to see your choice of swimwear?”

“Patty? I think she’d love ‘em.”

Mac makes a face. 

“I can rock the ‘mingos, hoss. Ain't nothing wrong with a little flamboyance. Get it? Cause a group of flamingos…”

“Yeah, I caught it, Jack. Fine, you don’t mind if Director Thornton sees you like this, but I’d prefer to maybe at least make it to my first annual review before my boss sees me without pants on. Call me crazy.”

Jack opens his mouth.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Mac interrupts before Jack can say a word.

“What?”

“Whatever story you’ve got about some handler at the CIA and your lack of pants.”

“Okay, okay, fine. But someday, you’re gonna beg me for that story and I ain’t gonna tell you.” 

“Right,” Mac squats. He wavers for a moment, closing his eyes as he regains his equilibrium before picking up his board and standing. Swaying again. 

“Alright, fine, stop. Give me that,” Jack says, taking the board out of Mac’s hands and planting it upright in the sand and putting a hand on Mac’s shoulder, steadying him. “Look, you took a surfboard to the face, and almost drowned. You’re going in. Your choice is between an ER or Medical, but that’s about your only choice here.” 

“I didn’t,” Mac coughs, “almost drowned.”

“That would have been a more effective argument if you didn’t cough in the middle of that sentence.”

Mac glares at him. “I don’t want to make a big deal out of this.”

“It is a big deal, Mac,” Jack’s brow furrows and he sighs. There’s half a memory of arguing with his pop after taking a bad sack at a football game in high school. Getting dragged off to be checked out despite his claims he was fine and his pop insisting. “You scared me. Okay? A lot. It took you a long time to surface. I don’t know what I would have done if anything happened to you.” 

He thinks his pop said something like that to him. It’s a little hazy and while his pop was probably right, until just this moment, he probably still would have said pop was overreacting. 

Mac turns away from Jack’s concerned eyes, sheepish, embarrassed by the fuss. 

“I just need you to get checked out, for me,” Jack urges. Mac looks up, flustered by Jack’s concern. An expression that Jack’s too familiar with, like Mac can’t believe anyone would be worried about him and it makes Jack’s heart squeeze a little harder. A silent solemn vow that as long as he’s around, Mac will never have reason to doubt that someone cares for him. 

And for now, that includes a little tough love because Jack was scared. Now that Mac is safely on land and mostly intact, Jack can feel his fear turn into frustration. He stares Mac down, needs him to understand how much he cares, but he’s absolutely not going to let this go. 

“I’m not gonna pull you from the drink to let you secondary drown on dry land. You’re all beat to hell. And you’re limping. Make fun of my surfing experiences all you like, but I know surfers who have died from cutting themselves on a reef. Do you know what took a bite out of your foot?”

“Not… definitely. But there isn’t a lot of coral around here.”

“And I’m sure not going to let you risk your health, Mac.” Jack raises an eyebrow. “Bet Patty would rather her agent goes dripping through the halls than loses a foot cause he didn’t get treated after an injury.” 

There’s a flash of panic on Mac’s face, as he considers Jack’s words and the possibility of that outcome. He grew up with the ocean, he knows the dangers of even a small abrasion. 

“Look, those could easily be athletic shorts, dude. Throw your t-shirt back on and you’re golden. We’ll go through the ambulance bay. No drip drying in the halls.” Jack can see the stubborn set of Mac’s shoulders fading, resigning himself to the inevitable trip to Medical. The tension remains though. Jack gathers up the bloodied towels and their other gear. He steadies Mac as he slides his feet into his sandals. Tucks the board under one arm, and the other around Mac, supporting him as they limp to the jeep.

“She’s still gonna know.”

“First of all, it’s Patty, she’d know anyway. That’s her job. But she’ll get the medical reports.”

Mac frowns at the invasion of privacy. 

“It’s kind of what we signed up for, dude. Not so different from the Army. The people making the calls gotta know what’s going on.” Jack taps Mac’s chest. “I’ve gotta know when you’re hurting too. Security and intel. I need that information so I can make the right judgment call.”

“Yes, Jack,” Mac mumbles, like a kid getting lectured on the choices that led him here. And it feels a little like that to Jack too. The same old discussion they’ve had several dozen times already. They could stop having it, at least as often as they do, though Jack will probably never stop with the reminders, if one of them did a better job of remembering it before they reached that point.

“And second, even if Patty somehow didn’t already know and if you didn’t get checked out, there’s no way you’re hiding,” Jack gestures as best he can with his arm around Mac, “all of that. Not even with Bozer’s collection of stage makeup.” 

“I’m getting benched.” There’s enough of an inflection on the end of that statement that Jack nods. Mac signs with the confirmation. “You think she’s going to be upset?”

There it is. The root of the problem. 

Or at least one of them. There seems to be an intricate root system, going deeper than Jack’s been able to fully uncover, at least so far - but he’s patient and tenacious and he cares enough to keep excavating. 

One particularly deep, thick root, feeding Mac’s too active brain is this overwhelming need to be useful. To prove his worth. 

Mac will push himself, far past the limits of his strengths or abilities in a desperate attempt not to be found inadequate. That despite all he’s accomplished, somehow he’s shirking his duties. Jack doesn’t know how Mac can examine his life and find himself lacking but he does. 

The sins of the father laid upon the son, Jack supposes. The elder MacGyver’s abandonment of his child had far-reaching consequences. 

“No. Nothing to be upset about.”

“An agent injured in their downtime,” Mac shrugs.

“You didn’t give up all rights to a life because of your job. You’re allowed to play.”

Mac blinks at the words. “I’m not-”

“Booker broke his ankle in three places playing Frisbee and had to get medevac’d back to the States. Life happens. I’m sure you’re not the first agent to smash their face in surfing.”

Mac smirks, and winces when the motion pulls. “Thanks.” 

“She might seem all hard-assed, and best clandestine agent in the world who never cracks a smile, but if she’s really that good then she knows you need the downtime.”

“There wasn’t… a lot of time for play in my childhood,” Mac confesses softly. 

“There should have been,” Jack says, adding another piece to the MacGyver puzzle, and another promise to his list. “Always need some time for play.” 

Jack slides the board into the back of the jeep while Mac makes his way to the passenger seat.

“Better let me rinse your foot out,” Jack says, stopping Mac from pulling his legs into the jeep. Squatting down next to the door, he carefully lifts Mac’s foot, pulling off his flip-flop, and rests it on his knee. 

“You don’t have to… I can…” Mac starts pulling his foot away.

“I got ya, hoss,” Jack looks up, making eye contact. “Let me do this. Don’t worry about it.” Slowly, Mac nods, granting permission

Opening his water bottle, Jack pours the contents over the slice along Mac’s foot, holding it loosely, his thumb running across the ankle bone. Turning the injured appendage this way and that to ensure the entire wound has been flushed, while Mac focuses on holding still against the sting. 

A sharp intake of breath catches Jack’s attention. Mac’s eyes are closed when he looks up. “Sorry, hoss. Be done in a second.” Hating to be the source of pain for the kid. 

“It’s not… it’s alright…” Mac opens his eyes, meeting Jack’s gaze. There’s a startled vulnerability in his eyes. The look of astonishment that Jack followed him into the alley, that he extended his tour past sixty-four days. The surprise a few missions back when Jack tenderly took his sprained wrist and the supplies from Mac’s hand and splinted it for him. The shock of having someone take care of him.

“Alright, at least it’s something,” Jack clears his throat when the bottle runs dry. He wraps the clean end of one of the towels lightly around Mac’s foot and tucks it into the vehicle. “The towel ain’t too clean but it’s better than the mess on the floor. Seriously, dude, you’ve had the jeep like six months and it’s already this bad?”

Jack clucks, shutting the door and jogging around to the driver’s side. He passes Mac another bottle of water with instructions to drink. 

“It only looks bad when you compare it to a car that gets vacuumed every Saturday.”

“Take care of your car and it’ll take care of you.”

“It’s not that bad. I take care of the jeep. And it gets me where I need to be, which…well you know what they say GTO stands for…” Mac takes a pull from the bottle, before snagging another towel from the back and begins gently cleaning his face. 

“Gas, Oil, and Tires, cause that’s all you need and the goat will outlast us all.”

“No, pretty sure it’s Get Tools Out. The tagline should be and keep them out.”

Jack makes a wounded noise.

“We’ve been home, what did you say? Six months and how many times have you had me over to work on it.”

“Like you aren’t having the time of your life-”

“I should just keep a space for it in my garage-” Mac muses.

“-rattling around under the hood with me.”

“-I already do just keep the tools out.”

“You keep the tools out anyway.”

Mac flashes a teasing smirk. “You keep saying it’s gonna outlast us all, but at what cost? How many hours of work?”

“Hey, it’s not that it needs the work. My pop and I rebuilt that car. We spent a lot of time together under the hood. Loved sitting in the garage talking about life. Tinkering even though it didn’t really need it, just to spend time together. I wanted to share that tradition with you.”

Mac pauses his clean up, glancing at Jack, his smirk slowly fading. The whirring of his brain evident on his face as he tries to parse the meaning of his words. 

They’re going sixty miles an hour on the highway but the rest of the world is at a standstill. Nothing exists beyond this moment. There’s a sort of tightness in Jack’s chest at the words spilling over his lips. 

Stunned.

No. That’s not… that’s not right. Feelings that Jack, if he allowed himself, knew were there, have been there for months, at least, that he’s refused to give voice to. Startled, maybe, at the truth bubbling forward, but not surprised by them.

Worried at how Mac will see this confession. 

He risks a glance to his right. 

There’s a hint of hopeful longing that makes Jack’s heartbreak and he knows he must continue. 

“The GTO is a father and son kind of car," Jack says with a decisive nod. "And maybe especially symbolic for us. Old goat can take on anything it's up against and win."

Keeping his gaze steadily out the windshield, Jack watches Mac out of the corner of his eye, worried about suddenly giving name to his feelings. Speaking that bond into existence. But the tightness is easing. Like the confession made him aware of how the unvoiced feelings had been choking him but now he can breathe again.

Metallica plays in the background, the highway rolling under the tires as Mac processes what Jack said, looking from the dash and stealing furtive glances at him. 

It’s a lot to take in without warning, for a kid without a father figure in his life. Jack doesn’t need a response, doesn’t even need Mac to immediately accept it or believe it. Just give Jack a chance to prove it. 

Eventually, a hesitant smile twitches on Mac’s lips. "Always thought that nickname came from who's this old goat driving a GTO."

“You calling me an old goat, kid?” Jack grumbles. “Keep it up and you’ll be an old goat by the time I let you drive her.” 

“I’ve already driven her,” Mac tries finding equilibrium in their familiar teasing.

“Fine, smartass, you’ll be positively ancient by the time I pass her on to you.”

Mac swallows hard, staring straight ahead. “Hope… hope that’s a promise.”

“What? That the GTO is yours someday? Knew you secretly loved her as much as I do. ‘Course it’s yours. Why do you think I spend so much time teaching ya how to keep her running?”

“No, that I’ll… that it’ll be…”

“You can’t get rid of Jack Dalton that easily, kid,” Jack reaches out, laying a hand on Mac’s shoulder, at the juncture of his neck and squeezing gently. 

Mac’s gaze turns towards Jack, meeting his eyes briefly before snapping back to the dashboard, filled with expectation and apprehension. Trust and a reluctance to accept the words. 

And why should he accept Jack’s words? His promises? Jack would like to think that he’s proven himself over the last year and a half. He stayed. Protected Mac. Has been following him around the globe. Bringing him his favorite bagels for breakfast, and midnight taco runs during moving marathons. Taught him how to tie a tie and how to shave. 

But Jack knows some of the kid’s history, the little he’s been willing to share has been a story of tragedy. 

If the man who shares his DNA bother didn’t sticking around why should Jack? Life has told him that everyone leaves.

Jack feels Mac’s pulse hammering under his thumb, it seems even faster now than it was when he pulled Mac out of the drink. Jack gives another light squeeze before reluctantly pulling away. Not wanting to overwhelm.

He doesn’t need Mac to accept his words at face value. He’ll spend his life proving them. 

* * *

Mac releases a slow breath when Jack moves his hand away. It was too much and too fast and everything he never dared hope. It’s a relief when Jack lets go, though his skin suddenly feels cold at the loss of contact. 

He’s sure Jack was able to feel the rigidity of his muscles and read the spike of apprehension. Mac hopes he didn’t mess everything up. Ruin whatever this is before he got a chance to experience it. 

That Jack doesn’t think he’s upset or doesn’t… want…

He stares with unseeing eyes out the windshield, aware of his heart beating in his ears. His ragged breaths. And he thinks Jack is matching him breath for breath. 

Jack’s words shriek in his head. Referring to Mac as a son. To Jack as his father. And it’s too much and not enough. Because father’s leave without a word and never come back but Jack is promising to stay and it’s a dichotomy of what he knows from experience to be true and what he can barely allow himself to hope. 

He feels adrift, like he's still being tossed by the raging surf and isn't sure which way is up.

The jeep is turning off and Mac looks up in bewilderment and realizes they’re in the ambulance bay at the back of DXS and he’s lost a significant amount of time trapped in his head, twisting the words round and round, until he’s convinced he’s imagined the whole thing. Read more into the conversation than Jack ever intended to say. Missed a cue that would make this whole thing make sense. Because why would Jack want...

Jack rounds the front of the jeep, offering support as Mac hops out. 

Hissing when his foot makes contact with the smooth concrete, Jack immediately slides closer, wrapping an arm around him. He’s always right there, at Mac’s side, offering Mac whatever he needs.

Mac glances to the side, watching Jack’s profile. There’s concern that’s always been present as long as Mac’s known him. And a furrow in his brow that deepens whenever Jack is more worried than normal. And somehow that worry is always centered on Mac. His jaw tightening when Mac is distressed.

Mac leans on him for support until they reach the threshold to Medical. With reluctance, Mac shrugs out of Jack’s grasp, not wanting to look too helpless or injured. His eyes flit to Jack, worried what he’ll think about Mac’s rejection of his help.

But Jack’s expression doesn’t change. Is still filled with worry. He sticks close but remains hands off, letting Mac lead the way and guide Jack’s actions. 

“Mac,” the nurse on duty, the one they met a few months back for their pre-employment physicals, acknowledges him as soon as they breach the doors, her eyes already assessing the situation. He’s a little surprised, but mostly relieved that not only does she recognize him, she remembers his preferred name. It’s… nice. 

She also says nothing about their apparel. Her gaze though, despite Jack’s claims that he’s not embarrassed, has him tugging his white linen shirt closed. The material is still wet and completely see-through. 

“I had a little accident with a surfboard,” Mac says as she comes around the desk, suddenly wondering if this was a mistake and he should have taken his chances at an ER. 

“And a nice dunk in the ocean,” Jack interjects.

“I hope it’s okay that I came here. It wasn’t a mission related incident.”

Reese waves the concerns away. “Agents are always welcome to come here for their care, even in off hours. Sometimes it’s easier than explaining some of their more unusual history or scars.” 

She directs Mac into an exam room. 

Mac pauses, craning his neck to see Jack who hovers just behind his shoulder, looking up at him with uncertainty. Not sure if he should ask Jack to come with him. Mac doesn’t need him. Shouldn’t want...

“Planning on coming with, unless you tell me no,” Jack murmurs, only loud enough for Mac to hear. 

Unwavering support, but still offering Mac the chance to refuse. Jack is loud, boisterous, and sometimes it feels like it’s his way or no way, but he’s always quick to extend consent. Mac turns back to the hallway without a word and Jack follows automatically. 

Mac climbs, reluctantly, onto the gurney, grateful to be off his foot, but he does not want to be here. He hates the sharp smell of bactericide cleansers, the stark, unforgiving lighting that allows nothing to remain hidden, the feelings of being exposed and vulnerable. Jack stands at the head of the bed, always at his side and though he’s loath to admit it, even to himself, Mac is grateful for Jack’s steady presence. 

“Where are you hurting?” Reese asks as she wraps a blood pressure cuff around Mac’s bicep and clips a pulse ox to his finger. 

“Mostly my face,” Mac says with a small smile that pulls on damaged skin. 

“His nose is broken,” Jack adds. His voice is gruff but laced with concern. “His whole right side is hamburger, and that’s not a bad joke about his name. Plus, you know, the lungful of water he swallowed and the cut on his foot, but yeah, mostly his face.” 

“She asked what hurt. That’s what hurts.”

“Yeah? None of the rest of that hurts?”

Mac shrugs. “Not as much as my face.” The sound of the velcro ripping apart as Reese removes the blood pressure cuff ending the discussion.

Using a small bottle of saline and some gauze, Reese cleans away the rest of the blood that Mac missed in the car. She checks Mac’s pupil response with a penlight. Then tips Mac’s head back, shining the small light up into one nostril and then the other, visually assessing for displacement or other damage to the membranes. 

Mac keeps stealing glances at Jack throughout Reese’s assessment. He finds himself always looking to Jack for guidance, reassurance, social cues. 

Now, Jack's brow is still furrowed, watching intently as Reese listens to his lungs. Some part of Mac worried he would feel scrutinized. He remembers shifting uncomfortably in a cold exam room, nine-years-old and just wanting his father to be close, but he remained on the opposite end of the room, as far away from Mac as he could be, arms crossed, scowling and scolding. Leaving him feeling exposed and examined and found wanting. 

But he doesn’t feel that way now. 

Under Jack’s watchful gaze he feels protective and he's surprised by the warmth that blooms in his chest. He shouldn't need it. Is ashamed to want...

Jack doesn't move from his side.

Even when the doctor enters the small room, instead of moving and allowing him access, Jack steps closer. Watching with appraising eyes, as the doctor listens to Mac’s chest, and examines the abrasions, as though Jack is deciding if he trusts the man with Mac. 

Even when the cleaning is just as awful as he thought it would be. Jack flinches when Mac flinches, but he doesn't reach out, doesn't touch, and part of Mac is grateful because that much touch, right now, when he's still finding his equilibrium would be too much. Overwhelming. And yet, part of Mac wants...

Jack moves enough to attract Mac’s attention. Purposefully. Then lays his hand on the exam table, palm up. Just there, available, if Mac needs it. If Mac wants it. No expectations. No demands.  


And he does. But he can’t. He shouldn’t.

Mac grits his teeth and bears it. Toughs it out, alone, as he has for years, when there was no one to offer comfort. Through the extensive cleaning and debriding. 

Through the stitches in his temple and the inside of his lip. He thought those would be worse, and glared at Jack when he ratted Mac out about the cut in his mouth. But after they injected the novocaine, which pinched sharply enough that he almost reached out for Jack’s hand, he was numb. He couldn’t feel the sickening sensation of sutures pulled through flesh. 

He can’t start to rely on Jack. It will make it that much worse when he leaves. And everybody leaves. 

But the hand at his side stays. 

“You’re gonna match my swim trunks once they finish up with your foot.”

Mac flashes Jack a bemused, confused look, frowning and poking at his still numbed and stitched bottom lip when it feels like it doesn’t follow his facial expression commands.

“You’ll be on one leg. Flamingos stand on one leg. I should figure out where Steve got these. Maybe have him send a pair for you.”

“Someone else picked out your trunks?”

“Yeah,” Jack shrugs. “It was kind of a joke. Did you know flamingos aren’t native to Hawaii?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“Oh don’t you start now. I was in Hawaii. There were flamingos.”

“Only if they were imported.”

“You’re imported,” Jack mumbles.

“What?”

Jack shrugs. “That’s what Steve said. Only flamingos on the islands are imported and I told him he was imported.”

“Okay,” Mac laughs slightly confused. “There are four species of flamingos in the Caribbean. Florida. Central and South America. And two that are native to Africa, Asia and parts of Europe.”

“They’re in Europe, but not in Hawaii?”

“Mostly Spain and Portugal, I think.”

“That’s just wrong. I don’t think flamingos when I think Spain.”

“You think flamingos when you think Hawaii?”

“Sure. They’re in the theme song from that old show based in Hawaii.”

Mac frowns, thinking.

“Ya know, the guy with the mustache,” Jack taps his upper lip as he curls it around his teeth. “Tom Selleck.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Sure they are. Right at the beginning. There’s a flock of them running across the screen.” 

“You mean Miami Vice?”

“What? No! I… oh… huh. Guess it’s a good thing he’s so busy being a SEAL he doesn’t watch TV,” Jack pauses. “Okay, maybe you’re right. But you’re loyal to me, alright? If Steve ever asks you, it’s flamingos with Tom Selleck in Hawaii.” 

“Sure, if your friend, that I’ve never met, ever quizzes me on old TV shows I’ll lie for you.”

“How do you even know that? You weren’t a thought yet when those shows were on.”

“Harry liked to watch them.” 

“Mac,” the doctor interrupts. “We’re all finished with you.” 

Jack smiles softly as Mac turns towards the doctor at the end of the table, distracted enough by his conversation with Jack that he somehow missed the rest of the painful cleaning and suturing. 

“Reese is going to find a pair of crutches so you can stay off your foot until you follow up with us in a week and get the stitches out. And I want to see you in a week anyway, so please let us take the stitches out. Don’t do it yourself or have your partner do it.” He sounds weary, like those are instructions he often repeats but rarely sees followed. 

“Got it, Doc,” Jack answers.

“She’ll go over the rest of your discharge instructions with you too, but I’m sending a prescription for antibiotics. Twice a day with food. And finish the full course.” The doctor stands, heading for the door. “And I’ll see you in a week.” 

“Thanks, Doc,” Jack turns toward Mac, extending an hand to help him sit up. Mac stares at it for a moment, then reaches out, accepting the help. Scooting to the edge of the table, he drapes his legs over the side. “That wasn’t so bad.”

Mac raises an eyebrow but reluctantly agrees. “Thanks for… um… thanks for staying.”

“Of course, hoss. I’m always gonna stay.”

* * *

_ Epilogue:  
A few weeks after Mac’s face has healed.  _

Jack eagerly tears open the envelope as soon as he’s back in the car. He misses this. The days of dropping film off at the photo counter, excitedly waiting to see if the snapshots of family and friends turned out. Preserving memories of laughter and love. Hoping no one’s eyes are half-closed, or red, or the picture overexposed. 

It’s just not the same, the immediacy of the digital photo. The ability to see if something is wrong, restage, and correct it.

He’s not just an old man, shouting at the kids to get off his grass. He appreciates digital photography. He wouldn’t consider himself vain, but there’s something nice about being able to delete a less than flattering picture. And he likes the ability to easily carry hundreds of photos around with him, but sometimes he’s nostalgic for the good ol’ days. For holding a photograph in his hands and rifling through the pages of an album. 

Jack pulls out the single picture that he submitted online, grinning at the scene. It’s even better than he hoped, now that it’s tangible.

Leaning over, he opens the glove compartment, pulling out another photograph, about twenty years older than the one in his hand. 

A moment frozen in time, spontaneously captured by his mom. Seventeen year old Jack, hair longer than he’s worn it in decades - it so completely encapsulates that early-nineties feel - falling over his forehead. He’s leaning, elated, against the GTO, smiling widely at the camera, while his pop stands next to him. Jack Sr’s arms around Jack Jr, only he’s not looking at the camera. His gaze is firmly on his son. Smile soft and eyes filled with pride. 

“Hey, pop,” Jack whispers. 

He looks down at the new photograph. The scene is similar, though the roles have changed. 

Mac leans against the GTO. His hair even longer than Jack’s was, letting it grow, wild and untamed, now that no one is yelling at him to go get shorn. His smile is less arrogant than Jack’s, less sure of himself. Softer but still pleased. Filled with a new found contentment. 

Jack’s arm is around him, squeezing Mac’s shoulders a little tighter than his pop was holding him. The gaze turned towards Mac is every bit as proud. Filled with as much love. 

Jack’s eyes swim with unexpected tears and he brushes them away with a laugh. 

“You’d love him, pop. He’s a good kid. And so smart. Smartest guy I’ve ever met, about everything, except knowing how important he is,” Jack smiles softly. “His father… well, he did a pretty bang up job of messing with Mac’s head. That’s his name. MacGyver. His mom is probably roaming around up there somewhere. She died when he was five. If you happen to run into her, maybe let her know he’s safe? He’s all grown up. And she doesn’t need to worry anymore. Tell her I've got him. As long as I’m around, he’ll always know he’s important. He’ll never doubt that he’s loved.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Pandi19 and CommanderBunnBunn who inspired the conversation between Jack and Steve McGarrett that Jack uses as a distraction for Mac. I laughed so hard at the "you're imported" line. 
> 
> Also Thanks to Kailene and CommanderBunnBunn who let me use their headcanons about the parallel photographs of dads and sons that Jack keeps in the glove compartment of the GTO.
> 
> And thank you for reading!


End file.
